


Perfect Fit

by ismyvoodooworking (coloursflyaway)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, fucking against a ladder, pretty rough fucking against a ladder, really it's just fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/ismyvoodooworking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal fucks Will against the ladder in his office.<br/>And yes, that is basically it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Fit

Will doesn't know how they got here, but for once, he doesn't mind. Because it isn't that he lost track of time again, blinked and woke up somewhere without any idea what he has been doing for the last several hours, he just never would thought it possible that this would happen, not to him and not to Doctor Lecter. Hannibal.

He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he shouldn't be so surprised, because they have been doing...something, something which Will calls dancing in his mind because he can't find a more fitting word. Dancing around each other, watching and waiting and sometimes taking a step closer or farther away, but never losing track of the other. Maybe as not to lose him, maybe to make sure he won't attack.  
In Will's mind, though, it has always been a dance on a psychological level, not involving touching. Not involving steps of a ladder digging painfully into his back, not kissing, or Doc- _Hannibal_ 's teeth grazing over the tender skin of his neck, surely leaving a mark or ten, or his own hands fluttering over the other's side, his back, not sure where or if to settle. And yet, that is exactly what is happening and Will doesn't know how talking has led to this, and a voice in the back of his head tells him that denying that he knew, that he wanted, is lying to himself.

Not that it would change anything anymore, admitting or denying, because they've gone too far to pull away again, straighten their shirts and say goodbye with only a hint of a smile and a promise of another appointment the next week.

And he doesn't even want to stop, maybe that is what surprises Will the most, because although there has been this one, lovely kiss with Alana, he has completely forgotten just how it feels just to be so close to someone, to feel someone's heartbeat against his own chest and someone's breath against his cheek. He might have missed it, he isn't sure, but in any way, now that he has gotten a taste of it again, he wants to savour it.  
His hands still haven't settled on a spot, because unlike Hannibal, who seems to be more than sure of what to do, Will is still overwhelmed by the mere hint of lips against his pulse point.

There is a moan fighting its way past his lips and although Will doesn't want to let it escape, there is nothing he seems to be able to do against it, especially not when Hannibal presses closer, pushes his leg up higher and traps Will's cock between their abdomens. He is embarrassingly hard already, Will realises belatedly, flushes and yet can't bring himself to care too much, because there are muscles moving beneath his palms, flexing and contracting as the other starts to unbutton his shirt.

They still haven't kissed, not really, Will thinks, and there is something almost filthy about it, because he is gasping and all but rubbing up against the other's thigh, without even knowing what his lips would taste like. He should just reach up and pull Hannibal’s head back, or maybe push him back until Will could kiss him, but it’s _Hannibal_ and the mere idea sounds insane, to take something which the other hasn’t offered. So instead he arches his back even more, turns his head so he can brush his own lips over the other’s jaw, a spot just below his ear. It’s as much of a plea as Will can manage right now, when there are no words coming to his mind which would not sound either too immature or too desperate or a mixture of both.

He half expects to be misunderstood, because without words and without Will being able to look into the other’s eyes (it’s too distracting, too _intimate_ ) it’s so hard to communicate, but that’s the thing. Hannibal understands, sometimes answers before Will is even able to ask, and it’s the same this time; the other turns and then there are lips meeting lips and oh.  
Oh, this is completely different than any other kiss he has ever shared with anyone, all tongue and teeth and bites as if Hannibal was about to eat him up completely. It’s intense, almost violent, it’s a battle for dominance which Will doesn’t even fight, instead surrenders instantly.

Somehow it’s the easiest thing, to let Hannibal lick into his mouth, to grant him entrance, and the other man proves to be just as good with his lips as he had expected it. There are moans being passed from his mouth to Hannibal’s, with tongues and sucks, and he just knows that Hannibal enjoys this, enjoys how easily he is able to take Will apart.  
And the other works further on that, slides large, strong hands underneath Will’s shirt, over his stomach and chest and down his back again, until they come to rest just above the swell of his arse, while Hannibal still steals every breath from Will’s lungs. He almost forgets about them, but then suddenly, he is dragged forward roughly, and Hannibal has to swallow his surprised yelp, followed by another moan. And another one, because Hannibal pushes him back again, rocking him against the other’s thigh with enough strength to make sure that the friction was more than just delicious.

He’s getting hazy, his thoughts slower and with blurred edges, but Will isn’t sure if it’s because of the lack of oxygen (he can’t remember the last time he took a proper breath) or because of Hannibal’s expert touches, but it doesn’t matter; he is starting to forget everything around him, even himself, and it’s even better than the friction against his cock.  
Because Hannibal still hasn’t stop, continues to move him back and forth, perched on his thigh, and Will can’t remember ever having felt so blissfully helpless, at another one’s mercy, and he would be cursing in a way which would displease Hannibal greatly if his lips weren’t still occupied with something else. By now, he isn’t even kissing back anymore, just lets the other kiss him, lets the other move him and rock him against his thigh, somewhere along the way wondering when he has come to trust the other to this extent.

Finally, Hannibal breaks away and Will is taking deep gulps of air in the matter of a few moments, only now realising just how little oxygen he had left. He is still perched on Hannibal’s thigh, and finally Will knows where to place his hands, on the other’s chest, stroking over fine fabric and beneath that, warm, living skin.  
“P-Please”, he forces out when he finally has enough air to form words again, although he is not sure what he is asking for,  only hears how desperate, how breathless his voice sounds. How broken.

Hannibal still hasn’t answered when he stops rubbing Will against his thigh after a few seconds,  and leans in back again before he does, brushing his (red, swollen) lips against the ridges of Will’s ear.  
“I am going to fuck you”, he whispers and Will shivers, both because hearing such crude words from a man like Hannibal is incredibly filthy, erotic even, and because there is no question in the other’s words, more of a statement.  
He nods nonetheless, jerkily, and Hannibal chuckles and pulls back, even if only so he can undo the buttons of Will’s shirt, slowly and one by one. Will watches clever fingers moving and wonders just how they will feel on him, _in_ him. Because that is where they will go, as far as he knows, suspects without knowing for certain, because while he has been doing _things_ , he hasn’t done this particular thing. Hadn’t actually thought he would want to.  
But it’s different with Hannibal, just like so much is different when it comes to the other man.

When Hannibal finally has gotten his shirt open, Will expects to have those hands on him like before, touching and feeling and searching for something Will doesn’t know on his skin, but it never comes; instead Hannibal starts unbuttoning his pants, just as slowly and even more methodically, making sure not to touch his cock more than strictly necessary. There is something almost clinical about it, something precise, which would maybe scare him, or at least make him uneasy, if this was any other situation. Now, though, now he is too far into this to mind, only able to moan with the hint of a plea hidden in the sound when Hannibal steps away, because suddenly the sweet, sweet friction against his cock is gone. His pants pool around his ankles and the other doesn’t even need to tell him to kick them off, because it’s so clear that Will can’t fight anymore, and doesn’t want to, either.

“Good boy”, Hannibal says and Will shivers, flushes, because this is humiliating, degrading even, having the older man speaking to him like he speaks to his dogs, and yet it makes his cock twitch. It only makes him blush more, staring everywhere but at Hannibal’s face, because he knows that those full lips will be curved into a smile, a smirk, since Hannibal has to know, has to see just how this is affecting him. Probably knew before he even said the words.  
Hannibal doesn’t step closer although Will can’t help but wish he would, both to have something to distract him from his own shameful arousal, and because part of him just yearns to be touched. Instead, he issues a command, one which makes Will’s face burn and his hands move on their own.  
“Strip”, Hannibal says softly and Will can’t do anything but obey, because there is a subtle hint of dominance in the other’s voice, reminding him that he has long since given up. He slides his boxers past his hips, letting them fall down as well, before stepping out of them, pushing the shirt off his shoulders as well, and discarding it just as quickly.  
There is no way he could look at Hannibal, not when he is naked and hard and waiting, so instead he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, on his feet. It’s as submissive a gesture as it gets, but that too fits somehow; after all, he is at Hannibal’s mercy.

A few seconds pass without anything happening, and Will is getting more and more anxious, but no touch comes, no kiss. In the end, it’s another command instead, but one which makes up for quite some touches.  
“Turn around”, Hannibal says, and although his voice is soft, it’s still more of a command than anything Jack has ever managed to utter, because Hannibal doesn’t need anything but his own voice and presence and the strange sense of dominance which always surrounds him.  
Will complies without a second of hesitation, although it makes him feel even barer, even more vulnerable than before, if that is even possible.  
In a way, it’s easier like this, because he can’t see Hannibal’s face, his lips and eyes and high cheekbones, but at the same time it’s hard to know that those eyes are currently roaming over his back, because unlike other people, Hannibal _sees_ , doesn’t just look.

And this time, there is touching, a hand travelling down his back, following his spine to rest just above the swell of his arse, teasing and promising at the same time. Will shivers -maybe because of the cold, most likely because of the sensation- and pushes back, just slightly, not to take anything, just to ask to be given.  
While he has not expected events to take this turn, Hannibal must have known exactly what would happen, because there is another rustle of clothes, then a lid is popped open and the hand leaves his back for a bit before returning, leaving cold, slick marks on his skin when two fingers slip between his cheeks, only enough to tease his hole, a faint, sweet touch on the ring of muscles.

“Spread your legs”, comes the next command, and Will follows this one just as quickly as the others, maybe even quicker, because although he didn’t expect it, the small touch feels good, a certain kind of friction which is unlike anything he has felt in the few, awkward sexual encounters he has had.  
For a moment, Will wonders if he should answer, if he should beg (if he would, if he _could_ , he doesn’t know, but that would be something to be considered afterwards), but Hannibal doesn’t seem to be looking for a response, but for submission. And so he waits until the other moves his fingers again, circling his hole as if he was still contemplating, thinking, before thrusting both inside of him.

Will has expected one, only one, and really, he would prefer it like that, since this, this hurts. It’s a kind of pain he has never experienced before, dull and yet intense and Will falls forward a little, gripping the rungs until he is sure his knuckles have turned white. He would tell Hannibal to stop, but he just knows, that if he stops this now, that will have been it. No more kisses or touches, and the thought bothers him more than he would have thought, so much, in fact that he rather grits his teeth and tries to breathe, in and out, in and out.

Maybe a second has passed, maybe a minute, Will isn’t sure, but suddenly, without a warning, Hannibal pulls his fingers out again, the friction maybe even worse than the ache of being stretched. Not that it would last long enough to decide, because half a moment later, the fingers are thrust back into him, just as harshly as the last time, and Will bites his lip until he can taste blood on his tongue to keep himself from groaning.  
Even if it hurts, it’s clear that Hannibal knows what he is doing when he continues fucking Will, because every movement of his fingers is precise, but meant to stretch him open and not to give pleasure. The pain stays for the next thrust and the one afterwards until Will can’t count them anymore. It fades, though, too slowly, but steadily, until it’s more of annoyance than anything else, and instead the burn of the friction which comes with every thrust and pull turns into a faint hint of pleasure which grows stronger and stronger.  
But then, at the exact moment when finally, finally, the pleasure starts to outweigh the pain, the other man adds another finger, forces it alongside the two which are already stretching him, and it starts again, the dull pain, only now it feels a little as if he is being split apart. Will is sure that he is able to take this, because although Hannibal doesn’t seem to be the most gentle of lovers (something which he did not expect anyway), he doesn’t think that the other wouldn’t actually hurt him.

He is making noises, Will is dimly aware of that, heavy breaths and hiss and almost-silent moans, but he couldn’t stop those if he wanted to, and fortunately, Hannibal doesn’t order him to.  
There are tears beginning to cloud his vision, but Will blinks them away, because he will not let Hannibal – or anyone else for that matter – see him cry. And really, it is ridiculous, there are people who do this on daily basis, so he will be able to bear it for a few minutes.  
Hannibal’s thrusts are as deliberate as they were, only that now there are little twists of his wrist, curls of his fingers from time to time, which are infuriating, because they bring a hint of pleasure, a few sparks which feel as if they could be the beginning of a sheer burst of it, but the explosion which Will expects every time never comes. That too has to be deliberate, because it’s carried out with such a precision, just enough to slowly make Will forget about the pain, because he wants to know just how good this could feel so much he forgets about the rest.  
Without thinking, he arches his back, changing the angle and almost, almost Hannibal’s fingertips brush over that spot, before the other pushes him back roughly, with a broad, strong hand on his back.  
The rungs of the ladder are digging painfully into his chest, his stomach, he can’t breathe and somehow, it’s _good_. Very good, even, in a dizzy, mindboggling way, but Will is not complaining, because when Hannibal plunges his fingers back into his body this time, even the friction feels good. There is nothing after that though, the fingers staying deep inside of him, motionless.  
“Did I tell you to move?”

The other’s voice is still deep and steady, nothing betraying any kind of emotion, and it’s exactly what Will has expected. He shakes his head, bows it slightly, but doesn’t say a word. And it seems to have been the right response, because Hannibal rewards him by drawing his fingers out again, only to plunge them into him again, and although Will bites his lip, he can’t keep quiet because this time, the other doesn’t stop just shy of that one special spot, but allows the pads of his fingers to rub across it; and fuck, Will has been right.  
It’s an explosion, spreading out through his body, up his spine and down to his toes, making them curl and just like he can’t not moan, he can’t not push back; it’s too good and he needs more of it, now.

Not that he would get it, because while Hannibal doesn’t him punish him for moving, he pulls his fingers out just enough to prevent Will from getting what he wants.  
It’s good enough an answer though, so no matter how hard and how frustrating it is, Will forces himself to stop, to return to the position Hannibal has put him in and wait. And it is frustrating, because the next few thrusts miss their target completely, surely on purpose, until Will can only whine deep in his throat, for even though the friction of the thrusts is becoming pleasurable again, it’s still nothing against the mind-blowing, pure, raw pleasure from before.

The teasing is close to torture, and it seems to go on for an eternity before Hannibal twists his fingers again, pushes them deeper (and oh, Will has never felt that _owned_ before in his life) and rubs the tips harshly over that one, sweet spot – his prostate, Will’s mind finally supplies – letting the touch linger this time. It’s even more intense like that, because whenever the waves of purewhitehot pleasure start to fade, Hannibal makes sure he presses against the bundle of nerves yet another time, makes the sensations blend into each other, every single one heightening the pleasure until Will can’t do anything but grip the rung he is holding on to harder and harder, breathe heavily and moan, curse, beg.

If there is any pain left lingering at the edges of pleasure, Will doesn’t care about it anymore, the pleasure too overwhelming to focus on anything but the sensations of fingers and lips and teeth.  
Hannibal pushes his fingers deeper still, adds a twist of his wrist, circles his prostate before rubbing the pads of all three fingers over it with even more pressure than before, and fuck, he could come from this alone. He _is_ going to come from this alone.  
For a moment Will considers warning the other, but Hannibal wouldn’t allow him to be pushed over the edge, somehow he is sure of that, so he stays as silent as he can, squeezes his eyes shut to concentrate more on feeling, on the heat pooling in his stomach, slowly taking over his body.

However, Hannibal seems to know anyway, because he continues fucking Will with controlled, deliberate thrusts, but only until Will is so, so close, ready to come all over the floor and damning the consequences. There is a particularly harsh trust, but then the other pulls his fingers out, and this time, Will can’t stop the pathetic whine spilling from his lips.  
He isn’t used to physical stimulation, at least not from someone else, and being granted something like this, only to have it taken away again, it’s cruel.

He half expects Hannibal to just leave him like this, naked and stretched, cock hard and leaking precome, but then there is the sweet, sweet sound of a zipper being pulled, the rustle of expensive fabric and Will is close to crying out in relief.  
This, too, is going to hurt, but fuck, Hannibal surely knows what he is doing, and there is a dark, hidden part of him which thinks that coming on the other’s cock is still so much better than coming on his fingers.  
The lid of what Will believes to be lube is being popped open again, but there is no wrapper being ripped open, and it takes a second until Will realises what that means. There is no condom, which means Hannibal will fuck him just like this, maybe even come inside of him, and the thought is enough to make him shiver in anticipation. It’s filthy and wrong and he knows it, but more than that, even, it’s delicious.

With that thought in his head, it’s getting even harder to keep still, keep quiet; Will wants to turn around and watch the other slick up his cock, wants to know if he is flushed and if his pupils are blown wide, if Hannibal’s lips are red from biting them (because he has been so quiet that there is hardly another explanation for it), if his hair is mussed and hanging into his eyes.  
He wants to know if he affects Hannibal the way the other affects him.  
But just like Will knows that he is not supposed to beg, at least not until he ordered to, he knows that turning around is not permitted, and will be punished in a way which will leave him desperate and aching and wanting even more.  
How they managed to slip into these roles, how he did, Will doesn’t know, but prefers not to think about, in case there might be answers lurking and waiting to be found.

Hannibal seems to have a natural talent to stretch time, because it feels forever until there is more than waiting and staring at the bookshelves before him. And Will expects there to be a blunt pressure against his hole, a push and pain, but instead Hannibal gives another order, one which he would never have predicted.  
“Turn around.”  
The other’s voice is calm as always, steady and deep and Will wants to thank him, but instead just follows. He half expects to find Hannibal trussed up, no matter the quality of his voice, but it’s nothing like that; the other is still collected and looking at Will with an almost professional interest. Fuck, he is even dressed, still in his impeccable suit, tie and slicked back hair, with his trousers only open enough to reveal his cock, thick and hard. And for some reason, it only makes it better, makes Will feel hotter and more desperate, knowing that Hannibal hasn’t even bothered to take off his clothes, that not even his breathing is heavy.

“Grip the rungs”, Hannibal instructs and steps closer. Will’s breath hitches, because he is so, so far away from being collected and calm, and for a second or two, he thinks he sees a spark of satisfaction in the other’s eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it appears, and so Will just does as he is told, although he is not quite sure what the action is to help with… at least until there are broad, strong hands on his hips, lifting him up. He reacts more on instinct than anything else, wraps his legs around Hannibal’s waist to at least give him some semblance of leverage, and this time, there is most definitely satisfaction in the other’s eyes, as if Will was doing just what he wanted him to all along.  
He doesn’t mind it at all, Will finds, instead it feels good, knowing he has pleased Hannibal.  
His hands grip harder, trying to hold himself up by his own strength, but it’s impossible, and suddenly Will realises what this is about. He’s helpless, absolutely, wonderfully so, having to rely on Hannibal to give him what he needs instead of taking. Having to rely on Hannibal to fuck him down on his cock instead of pushing back against him.

Now that he is able to, Will can’t stop looking, not at Hannibal’s eyes, of course, but at his lips, his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He isn’t used to being so close to someone and it makes everything more intense, the hands on his hips, the friction of the other’ shirt against the sensitive skin of his balls, the, fuck, the hot, slick length of Hannibal’s cock sliding against his arse.  
It’s hardly believable that this is happening, actually happening, even more so when the older man shifts and steps closer to the ladder, until Will can feel the rungs digging into his back, lifts him a little higher, changes the position of his legs, and then, at last, the head of the other’s cock is pressing against his hole, teasing.  
Will takes a few desperate gulps of air, unsure if because he wants to prepare himself for the inevitable pain or the pleasure which will surely follow it.

He doesn’t have to wait for long, only a few more seconds before Hannibal pulls him down, in one fluid motion and just as mercilessly as Will has come to expect.  
And it hurts. It’s an intimate pain, throbbing and yet dull, splitting him apart right in the middle, and yet somewhere in his muscles there must be a faint memory of how the fingers have felt against his prostate before, a hint of pleasure lingering in them, because it’s excruciating, but more bearable still; a hint of sweetness hidden in the friction when Hannibal moves him up again.  
Will’s eyes are still fixed on the other’s jaw, watching muscles clench, but it’s only a few more seconds, until that becomes impossible, because Hannibal is leaning in, pressing an almost violent kiss to Will’s neck.  
It would be a sweet gesture from anyone else, but this is not something to distract him from the pain with pleasure, this is a claim being put on him, a mark, a brand, Hannibal’s teeth and tongue and lips making sure that they’ll leave a bruise which will last for days, on a spot which will be impossible to cover up.

Still, it is something else to focus on, and Will is glad for it, because Hannibal does not even give him a second to relax, to get used to this between movements. Because these aren’t actual thrusts; it’s Hannibal fucking him on his cock more than anything else, Hannibal _using_ him, and even through the pain, the thought makes his cock twitch with shameful, humiliated arousal.  
Maybe it’s because he hasn’t felt properly in control for years now that finally admitting it, giving the last few scraps up, feels so good, maybe it’s because it’s Hannibal and although their relationship is not the easiest one, Will is certain that the other will catch him, but in any way, it feels too good to fight it.

There is no hint of hesitation or even consideration in the rhythm Hannibal sets, too hard to give him a moment to catch his breath, but steady and while Will tries his best to relax somehow, the pain really starts subsiding.  It’s far too slow, but Will is glad for it, not only because of the lack of discomfort, but even more because like this he is starting to feel other things, like Hannibal’s breath against the skin of his throat where the other is still sucking and nipping and marking, his nails which dig into Will’s skin with every other time the other lifts him up, the scratch of Hannibal’s trousers against his thighs with every movement.  
Will briefly wonders if that, too, will leave a mark, raw and lasting, and finds that he wants it to, just like he wants to have Hannibal’s handprints on his hips when he leaves, to press his fingers against when he can’t bear it anymore.

But the pain fading has another effect too, because while there had been a trace of pleasure lingering before, it grows stronger with every thrust, until the stretch and burn is nothing to prevent this from feeling good, but something which makes it better, gives the sweet friction a sharp edge and making it more vivid, more real.  
It’s as if Hannibal knows, can feel it in the way Will arches his back, because when he pulls him down the next time, it’s twice as hard, forcing a surprised kind of yelp from Will’s lips. If he had thought that he had been seated completely on the other’s cock, this would have proven him wrong, because suddenly, there is friction against parts of he hasn’t even known existed, the head of the other’s cock stimulating nerves which have never felt anything before, and hell, Hannibal is not only fucking him, he’s _claiming_ him.  
Will finds that he doesn’t mind it at all.

He feels full, filled up to the brim, and the only thing he can do is to let his head fall backwards against the ladder, screwing his eyes up to keep himself from looking; he isn’t sure if he could take it right now. Hannibal follows without a second of delay, keeping his lips moving against the skin of Will’s neck.  
The other must be far stronger than he would have given him credit for, because he is still lifting Will up with ease, pulling him down forcefully and impaling him on his cock, even still able to entirely miss his prostate. Because Hannibal could find it, he is sure of that, could probably reduce him to a babbling mess with three well-aimed thrusts and yet he chooses not to, lets Will suffer instead.  
The new pace Hannibal sets is harsher than before, faster, though, and by now, Will is sure he will have bruises all over his back tomorrow from the rungs of the ladder digging into his flesh, from Hannibal’s teeth, from his hands, and oh, he’ll be so, so sore, but somehow he can’t bring himself to care, not now. Not when it is so much easier to lose himself in the stretch and the burn and the pleasure.

When Will clenches down around Hannibal’s cock, it’s more of an experiment than anything else, to see just what it will do to him, to the other.  
It’s more intense when Hannibal forces him down on his cock, hard enough to split him open, more friction against his swollen, stretched hole and when Will moans against the other’s shoulder, it’s so loud that, should someone be waiting outside, they’ll know exactly what is happening.  
He has expected that, though, because somehow, it is getting harder and harder to keep himself from making noises, for even without any stimulation to his prostate, his nerves are still singing with pleasure, his cock is hard and leaving slick traces of precome on his stomach. But there is another noise, almost drowned in his own moan, so that Will can feel it more than actually hear, soft vibrations against his neck, and a loss of suction for a few short moments.  
It’s better than even the friction, because he is _affecting_ Hannibal; although he didn’t know it up until now, that seems to be everything he wanted.

Fortunately Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind (because Will has half expected to be scolded, maybe even punished), instead lets his wonderfully skilled mouth travel up to Will’s ear, ghosting over the ridges just like before. And for the first time, now when he really doesn’t want them to, Hannibal’s hands stop fucking him down on the other’s cock, just hold him steady, pressed against the ladder and with only the head still inside him. It’s torture, and Hannibal knows it.  
And then the other speaks, only a few words, and those silent and rough and perfect.  
“Scream for me.”

And although Will knows what is about to happen, it still comes as a surprise, because it’s so sudden. Hannibal’s hands pull him down with just as much force as before, if not more, impaling him on his cock until Will is sure that there is no space left in his body, until he can’t even breathe…not that he could anyway, because somehow Hannibal has managed to change the angle, subtly but still enough to make sure that the head of his cock brush right across Will’s prostate.  
His back arches, his head thrown back, for if the fingers have felt good before, than this is pure, unaltered bliss, not sparks, but waves of pleasure washing over him and drowning him, and he only notices that he is following the command Hannibal has given when he hears his own voice, a broken, strangled cry which holds more desperation than should be possible.

When Will contracts his muscles around the other’s cock this time, it’s not on purpose; it feels as if his entire body was clenching up to make sure that the next thrust is going to bring every bit of friction possible.  
He hopes that it’s enough to draw a moan from Hannibal’s lips, but he can’t say for certain, since the sounds he makes himself would be more than enough to drown them.  
How staying silent was possible before, Will can’t remember, but it isn’t now, every thrust so intense Will feels as if he is going to burst if he keeps quiet. Especially now that Hannibal has permitted him, _ordered_ him to scream, and Will can’t help but wish for someone to be outside, listening to his every cry of pleasure, every moan.

It might be a reward when Hannibal continues fucking him harder than before, setting a rhythm so brutal that Will can feel it down to his bones, every thrust rough enough to force the air out of his lungs all over again. He still can’t move, so instead, he tightens his legs around Hannibal’s waist, hoping it will make it easier for the other to pull him down on his cock, and hesitantly lets go of the rungs, slides his arms to wrap themselves around Hannibal’s neck.  
He isn’t pushed away (and not quite sure if he expected to be), instead Hannibal’s hands move slightly, grip his hips harder and lift Will up halfway, before pulling him down again, only that this time, Hannibal’s hips snap forward too,  adding to the force.

The angle is perfect like this, the pressure against his prostate just a bit too much when Hannibal moves him downwards, the friction just shy of painful, and Will is not sure if he has been thinking before, but he certainly isn’t anymore, because everything is blissfully close to being too much.  
It’s so much better than the fingers inside of him, for while they had made him aware of everything, right now, he is forgetting, the whole world melting around them, nothing mattering except Hannibal’s cock pushing inside of him.

It’s then that the thrusts slowly start losing some of their precision, getting slightly rougher and less perfect. They’re still more deliberately timed than should be possible, but Hannibal’s rhythm is faltering from time to time now, the force of the thrusts varies, if only slightly, and it’s lovely.  
There is something raw about it, which more than makes up for the slight lack of rigour and Will likes it even better like this, because it means that Hannibal enjoys this too, even if there are hardly any sounds to prove it.  
And it’s those thrusts, those harsh pushes and pulls which finally are enough to bring Will to the same state as before when Hannibal had used his fingers to take him apart, every slide of the other’s hard cock inside of him making him shiver and mewl until he is sure that one more thrust against his prostate will be enough to push him over the edge for good.

But Hannibal seems to know it before he does himself this time too, because the next thrust doesn’t come, instead the other shifts and presses Will harder against the ladder, hoisting him up until he is half seated on one of the rungs, reducing the weight Hannibal has to lift until he can move one of his hands to Will’s cock instead.  
It’s only two fingers which close around the base, and yet it’s enough to make Will throw his head back until it hurts, moaning out something between a curse and a plea, because he had forgotten how much he wanted at least some friction, some touch.  
And it would be enough, if the older man’s grip wasn’t too tight, keeping him on the edge while Hannibal leans in slightly, whispers, “I want you to look at me, Will… I want you to look at me, and _come_.”

His voice is the slightest, most delicious bit rough, and the second he has stopped talking, Hannibal thrusts against Will again, shallow thrusts which are less satisfying and yet stimulate his prostate enough to fuel the pleasure which fills Will up to the brim. At the same time, Hannibal’s fingers loosen, his hand moves up and closes around the head of Will’s cock, provides a sweet, small amount of friction (although somewhere in the back of his mind, Will knows that it’s mostly to prevent him from coming all over the other’s suit, and the thought makes his cock twitch).

Hannibal has told him to, and yet it takes a few more seconds, or two more thrusts until Will manages to look at the other, really look, and everything happens at once.  
There is something in Hannibal’s eyes he can’t read, but there is lust too, possessiveness, even, there is Hannibal’s hand tightening ever so slightly around his cock, rubbing a thumb across the head, there is a snap of the other man’s hips which is just the slightest bit more forceful, and Will is coming.

It’s a shockwave of pleasure, hot and intense, making every of his muscle contract at once, his legs tightening around Hannibal’s waist and his hole clenching around the other’s cock, a shout which could just as well be Hannibal’s name escaping him. Every nerve in his body seems to be singing, vibrating with pleasure, to the extent where Will can’t decide on what to focus as he spills his seed into the other’s hand.  
Hannibal fucks him right through it; every thrust drawing out his orgasm until Will can’t breathe anymore, going boneless once he has ridden out the last aftershocks.

And the other doesn’t stop. That alone would be enough to get Will hard again, if he hadn’t just come, because there is not even a pause, instead Hannibal just continues to use him, his body, and Will moans at the thought, tries his best to clench down around the cock still inside of him.  
With only one hand to use for leverage, the thrusts are even less precise, because even if the other is stronger than Will would have thought possible, his weight has to become a problem after some time, so Will slowly, awkwardly untangles his arms behind Hannibal’s neck, raises them up again to grip at the rungs, holding up at least a small part of his weight. Partly, it’s to give the other more freedom to do whatever he wants to Will, partly because no matter if he is oversensitive or if the continuing thrusts are starting to make him ache, he still doesn’t want this to end.  
Hannibal seems to acknowledge the invitation, takes it and smirks.  
It’s only now that Will notices he still hasn’t looked away.  
  
He does now, though, spreads his legs wider as an apology and is rewarded by two fingers being pressed against his lips, thick and long and covered in his own come. It’s filthy and intimate and Will sucks them into his mouth without a moment of hesitation, cleaning them off with bobs of his head and swirls of his tongue before releasing them, continuing to lick the rest of his seed off Hannibal’s palm, sucking on the other fingers to make sure he hasn’t missed a spot.  
If he could, he would kiss Hannibal to share the taste (salty and bitter and strange on his tongue), but there is no way, for the second his hand is more or less clean again, Hannibal brings it down to Will’s hips again, splaying his fingers on the exact same spot as before.  
Again, there is no pause to allow Will to prepare himself, but this time he doesn’t need it, since Hannibal picks him up and fucks him down on his cock again, hard and fast and still precise, again and again until Will can’t keep his eyes open anymore, even if it’s to see Hannibal’s face when he comes.  
He does only seconds afterwards, with a low groan and still buried deep inside of Will, filling him up with his come, the added slickness making it even easier to use Will’ body right through it, bringing him down with a force that has Will gasping. It’s another claim, one which is even more intimate, more special, and one which Will knows, he will think of even more.

And maybe it’s better that way, because like this he can imagine that the other’s eyes screwed up in pleasure, his lips parted in a silent scream, or biting his lips to keep quiet, and he prefers that mental image to a real one of Hannibal unmoved and collected as always.

Will can still taste his own seed on his lips when Hannibal pulls out (and oh, there warm come trickling from his hole, down his thighs, and Will loves it) and sets him down on the floor again, almost carefully. It doesn’t change that he almost doubles over when he loosens his grip around the rungs of the ladder, though, but it’s Hannibal he falls against, which makes it better. Almost makes it alright, because if someone has to catch him, Will wants it to be him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


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